


Practically Floored

by BasilHellward



Series: Being Human December 2020 Prompt List Fills [1]
Category: Being Human (UK)
Genre: Agoraphobia, Alternate Universe - Human, Anxiety, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grocery Shopping, Holding Hands, Hugs, Human Hal, Human Tom, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:40:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27728236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BasilHellward/pseuds/BasilHellward
Summary: With the bloodlust gone, Hal no longer has excuse not to help with the shopping.
Relationships: Tom McNair/Hal Yorke
Series: Being Human December 2020 Prompt List Fills [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2043601
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	Practically Floored

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Tumblr user drjohnweston's [Being Human December 2020 Prompt List](https://drjohnweston.tumblr.com/post/635168989527572481/being-human-december-2020-prompt-list). The prompt for December 1st was 'Shopping.'  
> Definitely misinterpreted this one but I uhhh don't really do Christmassy lmao and hey, a Being Human fic is a Being Human fic.  
> I took the title from Blur's Coffee and TV.  
> Unbeta’d — please point out any spelling mistakes or grammatical errors so I can correct them! Constructive criticism is also welcome. Enjoy :)

With the bloodlust gone, Hal no longer has excuse not to help with the shopping. Save for the fact he hasn't been in a crowd this size — or a crowd of _any_ size, for that matter — for the last fifty years. There are just... _so many_ people. Too many. Prams with wailing infants and squeaky trolleys pushed by a vacant horde under the glare of fluorescent lights. A cacophony of voices all speaking at once. The bloodlust may be gone, but the nerves remain. Spending half a century as a recluse will do that to you.

In the absence of a domino, Hal touches his thumb to his fingertips one by one: index, middle, ring, pinkie, then back again.

Index, middle, ring, pinkie, ring, middle, index.

Index, middle, ring, pinkie, ring, middle, index.

Index, middle, ring, pinkie, ring, middle, index.

Index, middle, ring, pinkie, middle— _fuck. Stupid fumbling human hands._

Hal tries to carry on in spite of the mistake, but it just feels _wrong_ now, the illusion of control shattered. He curls his hand into a fist hard enough to dig his nails into his palm. Closes his eyes against the rising waves of panic and inhales — deep, until his chest burns with it, until his pulse throbs in his temples.

He doesn't realise he's fallen out of step with Tom — stopped completely, in fact, in the middle of the dairy aisle — until a warm hand slides down to his wrist. Hal instinctively relaxes his tensed fist and Tom's fingers lace themselves with his.

"Hal?" he says softly, "You a'right? Can I do summat?"

Hal opens his eyes when Tom squeezes his hand, finding it a little easier to breathe. He looks at Tom, at the concerned frown on that open, kind face of his. Tom, whose only wish was to be normal and now, despite the scar that still rakes its way from his skull to his shoulder, that's what he is. What _they_ are. Normal and human.

Except sometimes Hal gets thirsty and he thinks _I'm not safe, I'm not safe, I'm not safe_ before he remembers it's water his body wants, not blood. Sometimes when he's helping Tom cook, Hal nicks himself with the knife and thinks _I am going to die. Maybe not soon, but someday._ Sometimes Hal sees an old face from before and his knees threaten to buckle. Sometimes he dreams of every single person he's killed and can't leave his bed for a week, crippled by the guilt.

"Hal?" Tom repeats and he realises he's holding his breath again.

Hal wordlessly tilts forward to press his face into Tom's shoulder, not able — or more accurately unwilling — to voice his need for comfort. He's dimly aware of Tom pulling the trolley in from the aisle before his free hand cups the nape of Hal's neck. Tom's hands are strong and warm and Hal revels in the solace his touch brings. He breathes in the scent of him, different now yet still familiar, and brings an arm up to cling to Tom's shoulders.

"I've got ya," Tom mumbles against the shell of Hal's ear, stroking his hair. Hal remains pressed close to Tom, his body distinctly warm in comparison to the fridges that surround them, until he realises how strange they must look: hugging in front of the milk and yogurt.

Taking a deep breath as he tears himself away, Hal manages a smile. "I-I'm okay," he says then adds, "What have we still to get?" and hopes it isn't too obvious that he desperately wants to leave and yes, he knows how pathetic that is.

"Er, Alex wanted some more've them cake thingies she likes, but we can get 'em later."

"Okay. I'm okay."

Tom doesn't seem entirely convinced but he doesn't look quite as concerned as before either. "If yer sure."

Hal nods and Tom's hand slackens in his own as if he's going to take it back. "You don't have to— We can keep—" He pulls Tom's hand closer.

Tom smiles for a second, crooked and tender, then frowns. "I need both've 'em t'push the trolley."

"Oh. Of course."

"But— 'ere," he says, offering his left arm for Hal to take. Hal chuckles at the antiquity of it even as the reminder of the past sends a pang of regret through him. He thinks of Lady Mary and wonders where she is now — _if_ she's still around. "What?" Tom asks.

"Nothing," Hal says, wrapping a hand around Tom's arm. His smile is only half-forced as Tom frowns again. "Just that you're so old fashioned."

Tom huffs a laugh. "You're one t'talk," he says fondly. "C'mon then, let's go."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! If you have a minute, leave a comment telling me what you thought, I'd love to know. Constructive criticism is welcome! If you don't have a minute, just leave kudos ;)


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